You Win Some, You Lose Some
by SChimes
Summary: [Written for the LJ Holiday Gift Exchange]. "Despite what Rusty seemed to think, Sharon didn't /always/ win. Especially not when her children were involved." Five times Sharon's children made her doubt her parenting abilities.


**You Win Some, You Lose Some**

"No – okay but I want _this_ one."

Sharon smiled to herself, but tried not to show it to her son. Instead, she nodded in what she hoped was patient understanding.

"Alright – I know you're attached to that backpack, Rusty..." She let her gaze wander wishfully over the neat row of brand-new schoolbags and backpacks on the shelf. There was even a sale on a couple of particularly nice models. "Let's buy a … back-up. Things get damaged, in college. This way you'll have a spare."

Rusty rolled his eyes. "I don't _need_ a spare. I can fix this one if it gets damaged, Sharon," he explained in his 'this is very obvious, why are we even talking about this' tone. "Like I fixed the straps last year, remember?"

She did remember. He'd poked about eight holes in his fingers trying to sew one of the straps back on after it had started to fray. Since then, the backpack had sprung at least a couple of small tears and there were one or two safety pins reinforcing the seams. And she wasn't sure how many more cycles in the washing machine the thing could take. Probably not that many.

It was time for a new backpack and that was that.

She hummed noncommittally. "Just have a look," she suggested. "See if there are any you like. Just a _look_, Rusty," she preempted his next protest. "Since we're here anyway, we might as well get _everything_ you might need."

"I don't need another backpack," he grumbled irritatedly under his breath – but he did start to walk down the length of the aisle, making a great show out of looking at each of the models on display, as she'd requested.

He didn't like any of them.

At the end of the aisle, he stopped and turned back to her with arched eyebrows and a pointed look.

"How about this one?" Sharon nodded to a light-gray backpack that looked sturdy and had a good amount of pockets.

"That's a weird color."

"Hmm. They have it in navy, too...?"

"Okay, but like, who wears _navy _schoolbags, Sharon?" Another huff. "Plus it's like, way too big, anyway."

Right.

"This?" She pointed to another model.

"What would I even use all those pockets for?"

Personally, she'd never thought that a bag could have too _many_ pockets, but to each his own.

"How about this? It looks almost like yours," she added coaxingly.

Rusty glanced at the suggested model and wrinkled his nose. "It's like... too square."

Sharon shot him a wry sideways glare.

"What?" He shrugged, exasperated, "I _told_ you we don't have to get a new one...!"

She pursed her lips; then, after a moment, her eyes narrowed. "You know... there is a special accessory store on the second floor of the mall," she murmured. "I think we should go there and look at more models, if you're having trouble finding one here that's up to your standards..."

Rusty's shoulders slumped. "Oh my god, _Sharonnn_..." And he pulled a face and there was ample eye rolling – but at the same time he dragged himself back into the aisle and resignedly began examining the backpacks again. She could hear the muffled grumbling under his breath, and could almost make out the words 'always' and 'win', and they made her snicker.

She didn't _always_ win. She knew that. It was that knowledge precisely that made it all the more enjoyable when she did succeed to sway her children into doing what she wanted. Which, admittedly, happened...often.

Often – but not always.

Definitely not always.

* * *

><p><em>1991<em>

"No – mommy, I want chocolate."

Sharon closed her eyes, while her hands tightened around the handle of the rickety shopping cart.

From inside the cart, her two-and-a-half year-old perked up. "Mommy, cho-co-late?"

Great.

She sent an impatient look to her daughter, who'd been walking alongside her, one hand firmly glued to the side of the cart. That was the rule – her brother still went into the shopping cart, but at almost six, Emily was old enough to walk around the supermarket with her mother if she wanted to. As long as she hung on to the cart and didn't wander.

And as long as she _behaved_. Sharon was pretty sure she'd included that in the list of rules.

She pursed her lips. "Emily, we're here to buy milk. And we don't eat chocolate before dinner."

In return, Emily pouted. It was cute – objectively speaking. But Sharon had been through this routine enough times that she knew what kind of catastrophes the cute pout heralded.

"If you're good and behave, you can have a cookie after we've had dinner," she offered.

"No, I want chocolate, not a cookie."

"Emily."

"I want _chocolate_!" The little girl had gone into battle stance, fingers clasping tighter around the wire side of the cart, her chin thrust stubbornly outward.

"Mommy, I want chocolate," Ricky imitated from the cart, giving her a happy smile.

"We don't eat chocolate in the evenings, honey," murmured Sharon. "That's – _no_ – Emily, put that back." While she'd turned her eyes on Ricky, her daughter had dropped an oversized Hershey's bar into the cart. God knew where she'd even gotten it, they were in the baking section. Must've been baking chocolate. "Emily."

The little girl crossed her arms and scowled at the floor.

"Put that back on its shelf," Sharon repeated in a firm voice. She could hear the edge of annoyance creeping into her tone. "That chocolate is for cooking, not eating. And I've already told you that we're not buying chocolate tonight. I don't want to have to tell you again. Put it back."

Emily made no move to comply, continuing instead to glare her unhappiness to the floor.

Ricky had fallen silent, looking between his mother and his sister.

Sharon stared down her daughter. "_Emily_."

The silence stretched on.

It took about another half a minute of pointed staring to give up – sadly, Emily was perfectly capable of standing there sulking for much longer than that. With an irritated motion, Sharon leaned around Ricky, picked up the Hershey's baking bar and replaced it on the shelf herself.

"Let's go."

"_No-o-o-o-o!_"

Sharon took her daughter's hand before the plaintive wail had had the time to fully build, and tugged gently to get her to move. Emily started to dig in her heels. Sharon tugged again. Emily yanked her hand away and glared. Sharon glared back.

"Emily, that's enough. You know you don't get chocolate before dinner, and throwing a tantrum isn't going to get you – Emily."

"_Chocolate_!"

"You can have some chocolate tomorrow morning, alright? We'll – "

"No! _Now_!"

Great.

Briefly, suddenly, she wondered how much easier this could have been. If she'd had some back-up instead of being outnumbered. If instead of always having drag them along, she'd been able to leave Emily and Ricky at home some evenings. If she weren't always this tired. If she had _choices_...

"_Why – can't we – never – have – any – chocolate?!_"

Her daughter's tearful glaring was punctuated by dramatic sobs.

Sharon bit her lips, and tried to summon some more reserves of patience.

"We're not getting any chocolate _now_," she qualified. "It's already seven p.m., it's too late for that and we haven't even had dinner yet. And this chocolate isn't for eating, anyway, alright? It's for cooking." She pushed the cart forward another few inches. "Let's go. We'll discuss dessert after we get milk."

"No!"

For God's sake. "Emily," she growled.

"No-o-o..."

"Emily, you're a big girl. Do big girls throw tantrums like this?"

"_No-o-o-o-o-o..._"

Sharon sighed, reaching for her daughter's hand again. "Come on." More digging of heels. "Emily, if you don't want to walk on your own, I'm putting you in the cart next to Ricky. Make up your mind."

The little girl shot her another heartbroken look, then hid her face away in her sleeve. The screaming had reduced to an unhappy low-volume mewl; reluctantly Emily grabbed on to the cart again and started walking when Sharon pushed.

She dragged her feet as pointedly as she could.

Sharon opened her mouth to tell her to walk properly, then stopped. She'd learned to pick her battles with her children. The dairy aisle was just the next one down, and maybe if everyone just stayed silent for the next thirty seconds, they could make it there without further clashes and tears.

The wheels of the cart creaked softly as she pushed.

"Mommy." Ricky looked up at her with big eyes, and informed her: "You maked Emily sad."

* * *

><p><em>2013<em>

The dinner was progressing in a tense, pointed silence.

Sharon let out a mental sigh as she pushed some rice around with her fork. She was tired, it had been an excruciatingly long day, and this was hardly the relaxing evening at home that she'd wished for. The heavy mood was starting to give her a stomach ache.

Although, a small, very small, part of her appreciated the silence; tense as it was, it was still an improvement over the usual angry ranting that –

"And you know what else?" Rusty stabbed at a piece of stir fried chicken with great belligerence.

The question was a bit of a non sequitur, since he hadn't actually said _anything_ else in at least five minutes. But Sharon knew better than to point that out.

She let him unfold.

"Like – doing this, what you're doing to me, it's probably not even _legal_, okay? This is infringing on my, my – my civil liberties, or something. And you _know_ it, Sharon! Okay?"

It was 'what you're doing to me', now.

Her stomach tightened unhappily.

She let out a quiet sigh. "Trying to protect you is not infringing on your liberties, Rusty."

"It is if you're putting me on complete _lockdown_!" he shot back. "Isn't there something in the constitution about personal freedom!? You're taking away every bit of freedom I _have_, Sharon. I can't even go to the bathroom without a police escort...!"

She refrained from pointing out that he hadn't gone to the bathroom that day, he'd taken off and they'd found him in the park, at the most unsafe, out-of-the-way chess table he could find. And then he'd tried to run away from the officers sent to retrieve him.

"How do you think that feels?! Or – or do you even bother to ask yourself that?" he railed on. "'Hey, I wonder what it would be like to live in a _total police state _twenty-four seven'..."

Sharon set down her fork. She hadn't had that much of an appetite to begin with, anyway. "Rusty – "

"I mean, do you even get how like, _awful_ this is for me? Surrounded by – by _watchdogs_ all day long, unable to _go_ anywhere... _criminals_ have more rights than I do right now, Sharon!"

"I – "

"It's like – look, I get that this guy's like, threatening me or whatever, but – "

"There's no but," she interrupted softly. "Rusty. The content of those letters you received is of sufficient concern to _warrant_ all these security measures. You _know_ that we wouldn't be doing this otherwise."

He pushed his water glass away and glowered. "Your security measures are ruining. my. _life_."

Sharon pursed her lips.

Rusty crossed his arms. "I think I'd rather take my chances with that guy who's writing the letters."

Great.

* * *

><p><em>2003<em>

" – _doesnt help when all you do is criticize me and point out how everything im doing is wrong! im sorry I cant be as perfect as you, ok?! maybe if youd ever bothe_–" [message 4/7]

Sharon groaned.

It was beneath her dignity to actually start crying, but damn it, sometimes she wished she could just curl up and be unreasonable and throw a tearful fit, too.

It was a luxury a mother couldn't afford.

Her eyes read tiredly over the angry words on the screen, again. 'As perfect as you'. Right now, she was feeling very far from perfect.

" – _r to actually answer my calls or texts or care about anything to do with my person, EVER, instead of just acting like i dont even exist anymore, then maybe i WOU–_ " [message 5/7]

" –_upposed to COUNT on you! How about you try to understand that youre not the only person in this world who has grown-up problems, OK mom!? And jsyk, it_ – " [message 3/7]

The next two texts arrived at the same time; apparently the sending order got a little messed up when one tried for texts over a thousand characters long. But, garbled or not, Sharon understood the message just fine – she was the worst inadequate mother who had ever cruelly ignored her children and refused to respond to their emotional needs.

She let out another soft groan, and lowered her head into her hands.

Emily's first semester of college was turning out... difficult.

When the first text message had arrived, a little before eight p.m. that evening, Sharon had still been at work. About halfway into her reporting cycle on a particularly vicious OIS, she'd barely spared a hurried glance at the phone screen while comparing cryptic ballistics reports. She'd judged that 'did u mail me my green sweater' could wait an hour.

Obviously, she had been very, very wrong.

All those long years of parenting behind her, and still sometimes it struck her that she had no clue what she was doing. Often, she wondered if she wasn't doing all the wrong things.

With a sigh, she took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Part of her wanted to just give up and go home... but there was only one day left to wrap up the investigation, and the new Assistant Chief looked rather high-strung and already didn't seem too fond of her and her division. Not that anyone _was_, really – tonight, she couldn't even get her daughter to like her.

It had started with that first text, and then another ('really need that sweater OK'), and a third ('mail it ASAP!'), and a missed call that Sharon had allowed to go to voicemail because she'd been on the phone with the DA's office, and... somewhere in there, _somehow_, her failure to respond had convinced Emily that her mother didn't love her.

Sharon wasn't sure how that had happened. Clearly, she'd missed some road signs on the way.

Then Emily had sent an indignant 'dont know why u keep a phone at all if you never use it!', and Sharon had lost her patience at last, because really, was the damned green sweater what she needed to focus on at eight p.m. on a work day in the middle of a reporting cycle?! She'd tried calling, then – only to have her daughter reject the call.

There might have been a couple of snippy text exchanges, at that point. Some unnecessary harsh words had been said. She wasn't proud of herself.

She was, however, very tired.

The phone buzzed again, and she distantly wondered if she shouldn't have resisted her children's nagging about the unlimited text plan. She'd _known_ it would be a bad idea!

" – _LD 'manage my priorities better' OK?!and maybe my priorities arent the problem,im not the one who cares abt my reporting cycles and w/e more than abt my own children :( :( :( :_ –" [message 6/7]

Oh, dear God.

If only she'd realized in time that the green sweater panic was another attempt on Emily's part to connect to home, or maybe to reassure herself that her mother and brother hadn't forgotten her... which was _ludicrous_, since Sharon did nothing _but_ think and worry about her, but...

Sharon sighed.

It wasn't easy for an eighteen year-old to move across the country and be on her own for the first time. She remembered those times, too, from her own youth, the insecurities and the emotional upheaval. She was reminded of it even more now that her own daughter was going through the same. The adjustment was hard on everyone. Emily missed home. Sharon missed Emily. And Ricky missed Emily _and_ was unhappy that his sister was off doing exotic college things while he was stuck in the unrewarding sophomore year of high school, which had lead to some extra boundary-testing on his part that had quickly taught him that fifteen and a half (or as Ricky called it, "basically sixteen and an adult") wasn't too old to be grounded.

It had not been the easiest few months, for either of them.

Another buzz.

" – _( :( _" [message 7/7]

Great.

She didn't fully have the hang of those "emoticons" yet, but she was pretty sure that five of those in a row were not a good thing.

Sharon rubbed a tired hand across her eyes, and tried to mentally reassure herself. It was easier said than done – there were already so many uncertainties about Emily going across the country to college, and moments like these didn't make her feel any better. The distance gnawed at her every day.

But it would be alright. She wasn't the first mother to send a child to college. And Emily wasn't the first child to act out over insecurities or homesickness. They'd be okay. Things would work out.

Yes. Things would work out. Definitely.

...Maybe she could go visit.

But Ricky didn't have time off from school until December, and the one time she'd left him home alone overnight he'd flooded the living room and burned a hole in a kitchen counter trying to build a better toaster... Plus, she'd already used most of _her_ days off taking the kids to Park City in March and moving Emily in in August. And another plane ticket and hotel stay on such short notice might be more than she could safely afford, anyway. And...

...and now her daughter was probably alone, at nearly midnight in a college dorm three thousand miles away, probably crying herself to sleep among angry mental ranting that her mother didn't love her enough.

Sharon moaned quietly, and lowered her face in her hands.

All those years of parenting... and still sometimes she felt like she couldn't win.

Letting her hands drop, she looked back up and reached for the phone to dial her daughter's number again.

Emily sent the call straight to voicemail. Again.

"– _( :(_", indeed.

* * *

><p><em>1995<em>

Sharon let herself through the back door into the kitchen just in time to witness Ricky throw a knife straight at his sister's head.

The knife flew through the air, hissed its way about five inches from Emily's ear, and slammed into the wooden cabinet behind her with a sickening _clang. _

It then clattered to the floor by her feet.

Briefly, all was silence... Then –

"You're not _doing_ it right, Ricky! I told you! You're too small to do it right!" Emily stepped away from the cabinet, waving her hands. "I _told_ you I should've been the one to throw! Now just go stand over there."

Ricky stepped back, shaking his head furiously. "_No_! I only did it once, it's still my turn!"

"No, you already had your turn! And you can't do it right anyway, you're too _little_!"

"I'm not little! I can do it! Put the banana back on!"

"No, _you_ go stand over there – " It was at that point that Emily noticed her mother's presence, and without missing a beat she turned to face her, "Mommy tell Ricky that it's my turn to throw!"

"No Mommy it's my turn! I only did it once!"

"No – "

"_My_ turn!"

"He can't even do it right!"

"Mommy!"

Sharon's knees were feeling oddly weak.

She planted both hands onto the back of the nearest chair, for some extra grounding, and shook the handbag off her shoulder into the chair. Her eyes felt like they were about to pop out as she stared at her children. Where was the sitter...?! Hadn't – why were they – what was...

Her gaze moved to the knife on the floor again. Then to the little scratch it had carved into the cabinet door.

Inches from _her daughter's head_.

Her fingers tightened around the back of the chair.

Silence settled in the kitchen again, as her children's bickering abruptly stopped. Emily bit her lips, then backed up a step, joining her hands behind her back and adopting a casual air.

Ricky slowly backpedaled after his sister. They exchanged a look; surreptitiously, with the tip of her foot, Emily tried to slide the knife under the cabinet.

"Did you have a nice day at work, Mommy?"

Standing shoulder to shoulder with his sister, Ricky mimicked her hands-behind-her-back stance and looked up at Sharon, smiling his happy smile with the couple of missing teeth. "We love you, Mommy."

She wasn't sure that blood had started flowing back into her brain yet, but somehow, from some deep place inside her chest that felt like it had caved in thirty seconds earlier, she summoned back her voice.

"_Richard._" It was a strangled gasp, but once the first word was out, the others were battling to follow. "What were you _doing_!"

Ricky hung his head. Unlike Emily, he never talked back when his mother was scolding.

Sharon's panicked glare moved to her daughter. "_Emily_! How could you – what was your brother doing picking up a _knife_!"

Emily stopped trying to push the knife out of sight. Her eyebrows pulled together and her chin stuck out and she kind-of-shrugged.

Silence was not the answer that Sharon was looking for. "I want an explanation right. _now_. From both of you! You both _know_ that you're not allowed to play with knives! _What_. Were you _doing!?_" She looked around the kitchen, as though some answer would present itself, and then remembered – "Where's Mrs. Harris!"

Their sitter and next-door neighbor chose that precise moment to walk into the kitchen. She paused at the sight of the two children standing guiltily by the cabinet, and a white-faced Sharon pinning them with an irate glare.

"Why... Dear, I thought I heard your voice. What's wrong?" Sharon must've looked like she was more likely to have an embolism than an answer, since the elderly lady turned to the children. "_You_ two were just supposed to be grabbing some fruit from the kitchen," she scolded. "What did you get yourself into to upset your poor mother like this?"

The poor mother in question followed the inquiry with another furious glare.

Emily held up the banana she'd been holding. "We did! We were just – "

"_Emily_." Sharon's look warned her daughter to not make things worse now by trying a lie.

The little girl's shoulders slumped.

Ricky's lower lip stuck out.

"But Yani and Isadora were doing it!" he wailed.

Yani and – "What?" Sharon had never heard those names before in her life. Were they new neighborhood kids? Friends from kindergarten or school? "Who are Yani and Isadora?!"

"From the circus!"

The – what? "What _circus._ We haven't been to the circus...!?" Was she losing her mind?

"No, Mommy, from the circus on TV," Emily clarified in a knowing tone. "From 'My Love Forever, Isadora'!"

...what?

"Oh, dear."

Sharon turned to Mrs. Harris, to find the older woman looking chagrined. So there _was_ such a thing as Yani and Isadora...? She gave her neighbor a questioning look. Her heart was still pounding in her ears. "You know what they're talking about...?"

The woman rubbed a hand to her forehead. Then she made the sign of the cross, and put both hands on her hips to glare at the two children, as well.

It turned out that Mrs Harris watched her soap opera every afternoon at 3 p.m., and that soap opera involved, among many other things that Sharon hadn't been able to follow, a traveling circus. Yani was the male protagonist and resident knife thrower. Isadora was his love interest, and he sometimes entertained audiences by having her stand against a board and throwing knives at an apple on her head.

Ricky and Emily had planned to use a banana for that part, as they had consumed the last two apples at lunch.

If she hadn't wanted to badly to cry at the thought of what might have happened, Sharon could have laughed.

As it was, she sat down and let her heartbeat return to normal, and sent Mrs. Harris on her way after twenty minutes of profuse apologizing from the elderly woman. It wasn't really her fault – Ricky and Emily had told her that they wanted some fruit from the kichen; they'd only been gone a minute when Sharon had walked in on them trying their circus act.

They were grounded forever. But first, she was going to sit them down for a long lecture on – on _everything_. She was just going to have lecture them on everything! And there would be no more TV. Or playtime. Or access to the kitchen. Or bananas. Ever. She was possibly also never leaving home again.

She chased them off to the living room to sit on the sofa and wait for her while she made herself some tea, because _something_ had to be done about her palpitations before she started in on the lecture.

She could hear the hushed echoes of her children's comments as she waited for the water to boil.

" – told you."

" – just said you were gonna do it better!"

" – that we do what _I_ say. You're just five!"

"I'm almost six! In a month I'm gonna be six!"

"Well, _I'm_ almost ten, so – "

"No you're not, you're nine!"

"But I'm gonna be ten _next_ year, and that's _old_!"

Sharon pressed two fingers between her eyebrows, and wondered if she should upgrade the calming chamomile tea to prescription blood pressure medicine.

* * *

><p><em>2015<em>

" – and like, thought it was gonna be boring to write all those response papers, but it turns out it's actually kinda fun! _Definitely_ my favorite class so far. And I think I'm doing pretty well in it, too, at least Jacques's said so a few times – I mean, not that he's actually _told_ me I'm the best in the class, or anything, but..."

Sharon looked up from her dinner plate. What? "Who's Jacques, again?"

"Oh." The shrug. She knew that shrug. "Jacques's the professor. Well – but he's actually just a grad student at like, UCLA or something, but they needed someone to teach Intro to Soc at SMC. So he's doing it for teaching credit, which he needs to graduate. "

"Ah."

Her attention might have wavered slightly after "the professor".

"You know, I'm thinking, after the class is over, if like, Jacques needs a research assistant or something. He always says that they need undergraduates to help out with research – and like, it would be a paid position, so... maybe for this summer..."

She hummed neutrally.

"I have to get a summer job anyway, right, and this one actually sounds like it might be fun! I really like the class, and Jacques told us a little about his research at UCLA and it sounds totally great – actually, he's studying organization sociology, so like, maybe he'd have some useful tips on how to run like, police divisions..."

Sharon's eyes narrowed.

It took him a moment, but eventually he hurried to add, "I mean, not that _you're_ not doing a good job, or anything. It's just – I'm saying, if you _wanted_ some like, extra insider information from experts in the field..."

Experts in the field like Professor Jacques.

He'd probably been alive for less time than she'd been dealing with organizational sociology.

"How old is Jacques?" she asked casually.

"Twenty-five."

_Again_?

Rusty must've seen her grimace into her salad, because he finished his glass of orange juice and gave her a wry look. "I know what you're thinking, Sharon. It's not like with Jeff, okay? Totally learned _that_ lesson the hard way." She might've been more reassured by that if he hadn't immediately followed it with, "And I'm older now."

By _four months_. Her eyebrows twitched, but she managed to keep the straight face. "I see."

"Anyway," Rusty speared another piece of chicken with his fork, and waved it around slightly, "I'm thinking I'll try asking Jacques if he's got a research assistant opening. He likes me, so I think he'd hire me. Did I tell you what he said about my writing style?"

"What?"

"So we had to like, respond to this paper he assigned us, and Jacques said he liked my 'incisive commentary'." Rusty looked so proud of himself, but she must've not shown the proper amount of awe. He leaned forward and clarified, "'Incisive commentary', that means, how I pointed out the flaws in the authors' thinking and stuff, and like, how their arguments were all wrong – you know what I'm talking about?"

This time, she couldn't keep in the smirk. "I think I do, yes." She couldn't help herself. "After three years of having you, Rusty, I believe I'm quite familiar with your 'incisive commentary'."

He pulled a face at her, but a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Whatever. Jacques likes it, and he's like, a professor, so his opinion counts."

"I thought he was 'just a grad student'."

Another face. He looked about ready to stick his tongue out at her. "Well, he's someone who's been _trained_ for this stuff. And _he_ likes the _incisive_ style of my arguments, and thinks I should keep working on that. He says my response pieces are fun to read."

Great. First there was Jeff who'd thought college could wait, and now there was Jacques who was encouraging her son to be _more_ sarcastic.

"I'm glad you're enjoying the class," she said diplomatically.

Rusty's expression let her know that he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Which really, he thought he did all the time, anyway.

Sharon picked up her wine glass, and had a long sip to hide her exasperated snicker.


End file.
